


the disappearance of the girl

by magesamell



Series: funeral bell [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Post-Trespasser, Tranquility, Trespasser Spoilers, elf angst, self harm themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magesamell/pseuds/magesamell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Her arm burns away, and in its ashes she kneels, clean-hearted with a keen anger pressing her brow."</p><p>Lavellan takes desperate measures to stop Fen'Harel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the disappearance of the girl

**Author's Note:**

> i love pain: the continuing story

_Greetings, Champion_

_I hope you have made it home unscathed_

 

-o-

 

In the end, it is a relief.

Her arm burns away, and in its ashes she kneels, clean-hearted with a keen anger pressing her brow.

Finally, this. Finally the truth. For the first time, she sees him in his entirety. And it is a vicious ache — that he knew all of her when she just glimpsed a sweetness he had tucked just above the poison.

Oh, she knows why he kept this from her.

Because he had known — he had known that once she knew, she would destroy him.

 

-o-

 

_I know you have already sacrificed so much, but I hope you recognize this request as personal in nature_

 

-o-

 

She is love-sick. She is plagued. The disease follows her in her dreams, clips at her heels. She can’t escape the forest. She can’t abandon him. She is not so cruel.

But the forest grows darker every night, until she stumbles in nothing but an opaque sea. The only light is his snowy coat, but he flits away from her. The quicksliver Wolf.

She starts burning the trees.

 

-o-

 

_You see, I’ve been having trouble sleeping_

 

-o-

 

Leliana rubs circles into her back. Grips her hands when they start to tremble. The bow makes a horrible clanging sound when it hits the marble floor. The room is too loud — she is hearing — what abominations must hear.

“I have a new appreciation for Cullen,” she whispers miserably. Leliana hums in disagreement, but says nothing.

“I can’t shoot if I can’t keep my hands still.” The words come out shaky, airy. Nothing seems to stick to her. Is she going to float away?

“Your symptoms are decreasing,” says Leliana. “Cassandra thinks you’ll be ready for combat within the week.”

Her breathing starts to slow. Eventually, the room quiets; her gasps no longer echo back at her; the only noise is the soft, regular whirring of Dagna’s gift. She flexes her hands, both wood and flesh. Her gears clink. Her muscles tense. Steady.

“Good,” says Leliana. She picks up the bow and hands it over. “Again.”

 

-o-

 

_V.T. tells me you know a somniari_

 

-o-

 

Cassandra pours carefully, watching the liquid rise with all the attention of a hawk. Satisfied, the seeker hands the tumbler over for the very last time. According to Feynriel’s instructions, after today she should stabilize enough to not require any further doses.

It’s the lightest the cup has ever been. Confronted with the seething blue, she no longer feels the dry-throated hunger that once threatened to consume her. When she lifts the tumbler to her lips, her hands are steady.

Cassandra is watching her, bright-eyed in the moonlight. “How are you feeling?”

Her throat burns. Her heart pounds vacantly. “Relaxed,” she says finally, and it is the truth.

 

-o-

 

_I will be in Tevinter soon_

 

-o-

 

Scout Harding doesn’t smile any more. With practiced neutrality, the scout indicates the locations where they expect to face resistance from slavers.

Leaning forward, the commander draws on the map with a wood finger, each gesture dooming the ground to a bloodbath. Ever since she traded her staff for a bow, she’s worked to make every action more controlled. Increased operational efficiency. She doesn’t burn her victims anymore; she shoots them between the eyes with all the mechanical precision guaranteed by a wooden trigger-finger. Calculated. Clean. Kind.

So when she taps against the map dispassionately, Harding nods, and follows her lead.

 

-o-

 

_I believe a collaboration between our people could produce the desired results. We, of course, can provide the lyrium_

 

-o-

 

It takes some care. They don’t wish to alert the Wolf prematurely. She also has no desire to be eviscerated in a hasty excision. So instead they bury her at the end of the forest.

She lies in the riverbed. Every night, she adds a smooth-stone to her chest.

It takes some care, but eventually the Fade peels from her skin.

She sinks ever lower.

 

-o-

 

_The Inquisition no longer exists_

 

-o-

 

To her distant surprise, she seeks out every opportunity to glimpse herself in the looking glass.

She touches the reflection of her bare face, her pointed ears, her lyrium-white hair. It becomes a compulsion to remind herself: she is still flesh. She is no automaton.

It might be a promise.

She had told Deshanna she would come home when the world was safe. It has been her cruelist lie. She’s failed to protect what she loves. By her own doing demons are delivered unto the world: first the Breach, and its Magister, and finally the Wolf.

She kills the Duke of Wycome herself. She wishes his blood would tattoo itself on her face, write her failure into her skin. The _vallaslin_ of the Betrayer. But she promised her Keeper. She has already shucked Andraste’s shackles, but the Wolf still howls though the Beyond. He beckons her yet, inviting her to the Black den, back to the dark forest. She marches forward eagerly.

There shall be no more mistakes.

 

-o-

 

_But, as you might suspect, the fight goes on_

 

-o-

 

At long last, he tears through the miasma.

_“What are you doing?”_

She opens her eyes, glassy light under glassy waters. The fade is syrupy-sticking, heavy and smudged, but he is so clear. He is bright, and frightened, and floating.

He could use some stones. Steady, satisfied, she looks up from underneath at his burning light.

She breathes in the suffocation, and answers. “I am doing what must be done. I cannot afford you any access to my operations.” The words rise as bubbles, even bursts of meaning.  

“What?” His eyes are wide and scared. “No! I, you cannot _do_ this to—”

“To you?” Her voice bursts through the surface, a sharp, scattering puncture. “Fear not, Dread Wolf. I am not breaking your heart. You should be thanking me. Finally, someone kind enough to curtail your earthly obsession. _Ar lasa ma revas_.” She repeats his once-words, serene. Calm. The water washes over her, whispers to her. _In another world, maybe there—_

Her answer does not satisfy him, as she had foreseen. He tries to reach for her, but the water snaps, pushes him away. Now he screams. “Don’t you dare!” Forehead pinching, he bears against her tomb again and again. The scraping of claws on a door. She watches his rage with some curiosity. “You know that’s not true. I told you. _Ar lath, ma’vhenan_ , and I—”

She rises all at once, water whipping from her hair. “ _No!_ I am your worst enemy.” He stares at her hopelessly, but he has no right — he doomed them to this. “And if you think for one _second_ I will allow a voyeur like you bear witness to my grief—”

“You would mutilate yourself to build some useless defense? You would sacrifice—”

His _fucking_ audacity!

“Sacrifice?! I have already sacrificed for you!” she bellows, her breath coming quick and crystallizing. “I have already bled for your love.” Her stump-arm spasms, threatens to unravel. “Now I bleed for myself alone.” And it is true, she is seeping, she is tearing. She closes her eyes, and relishes it.

 _(The Fade springs to her starved-skin, droplets of acid puncturing flesh, the sweet taste of anger searing her lips. She bleeds, she_ **_bleeds_ ** _, and she loves him and she hates him and she’s dying, always dying — how could he leave her? how could he love her? how can she possibly survive this? Her clan is dead and her people are fools and Mythal tugs at her with a yoke of ice. She has no escape and she hasn’t cast in weeks and the Fade cuts and she might burst into flame in this river, in this bed. And oh is she grieving, oh she is alone! She is without home, without land, without love, and she is_ **_tired_ ** _of everything being taken from her)_

When she opens her eyes he is sobbing, coming apart before her. In another world, she would — but she has no time. She is too weak, her body cannot bear the weight of all the magic she has washed away. It is rushing down, and her blood is singing, and she cannot stay.

 _Dareth shiral, emma’lath,_ the waters whisper.

“Listen!” she yells, and yells again until he is looking at her. “From now on, you get _nothing_ from me. No heartbreak. No memories. Nothing!” And then, in her quiet way, she promises him: “I’ll see you soon.”

With that, she lets herself fall back under the stream and into tranquility.

 

-o-

 

_If you agree, send me the address in the usual way. Tell your dwarf not to worry. It’s not too heavy a cost if it stops him._

 

_With love,_

_L———_

 

-o-

 

**I’m erasing myself from the narrative**

**x**

**I’m burning the memories**

**Burning the letters that might have redeemed you**

**You forfeit all rights to my heart**

**x**

**I hope that you burn**

lin manuel miranda,  _burn_

 


End file.
